Devotion
by Shishira
Summary: Jin and Hwoarang find themselves at odds during Tekken 4. Who will be more devoted to their own agenda? (Watch for NEW updates!)
1. Chapter 1: Devotion

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Hatred is a type of devotion. Love is similar to hatred in that same respect. One is a drive to make someone blissfully happy, while the other is a drive to make the other person miserable. To have the capacity to love, or to hate, is what makes a person human. 

This is what I would like to believe. I would like to believe that I, too, am only human. But if I feel hate without love, am I human anymore? Every single day I can feel the darkness growing in my soul, whispering sweet words of promise into my brain. Promises of power, and a reminder of who I truly am. Awakened, it seeks nothing but my soul. This 'it', this devil, it will never leave. I am a shell for it to command. All I have left is fleeting willpower and some vague semblance of humanity to keep it at bay. Two years I had run from the devil. Two years it reminded me how it had saved my life. Twenty-one years it has been waiting in my body. 

Am I a disease? Some malignant virus only bent on destruction? Or simply an unfortunate soul plagued by two generations of festering evil? 

It feels the desire within me to destroy. I can hear it laughing. Sometimes, I laugh with it. 

Soon, I leave Australia to face what I fear most: myself. Will I be able to destroy my cursed Mishima bloodline, or will I cower under the blanket of morality like a child afraid of the dark? 

I'm looking into the darkness, and I am not afraid. I can see through the darkness, while my father and grandfather are smothered by it. They live within their shrouds of evil and hated just like the demons they are. 

Why can I see through it? Am I the only being strong enough to rein in the temptation of power? If that is true, so be it. My grandfather is a devil in his mind; he will die. My father is a devil in his soul; he too will die. 

It's laughing again.

The boy had talent. He had drive and focus. But if all his efforts to learn traditional karate were for materialistic gain, then he had taught him nothing. The aged sensei watched as Jin Kazama moved around the main room of the dojo, taking in each sight as if he would never see them again. A backpack was slung over one shoulder of the Japanese youth, and a suitcase hung limply from his fingertips. He was leaving to challenge Heihachi Mishima for the title of King of the Iron Fist Tournament. The prize just happened to be the entire Mishima Empire, known throughout the world as a force of unification. It was as tempting as the apple was to Eve. 

It saddened him to watch Jin pass his gaze across the floorboards, where his sweat had fallen, or to the broken punching bag hanging from the ceiling, where he bloodied many a knuckle in his tireless efforts to unlearn his old style of martial art in lieu of traditional karate. He had broken that bag in his efforts. 

He had never talked about his old school art. In all honesty, Jin never talked much at all. But he was the best student that ever graced the halls of the dojo. The only words that graced his lips in public were shouts that focused his chi and numbers in flawless Japanese as he counted away each punch or focused kick. In private, they had exchanged few words. But each word left no room for misunderstanding. 

There was a story behind the young man that he would never learn. 

Jin approached the sensei, and they bowed to each other in mutual respect. As they straightened, Jin lowered the hood of his jacket and nodded, long black bangs helping to hide his features, as the shadows seemed to darken around his face. 

"Thank you, sensei," Jin bowed deeply. 

"Be well, Jin Kazama. You will be missed."

With that, Jin was gone, out the front doors of the dojo without another word. The sensei stood there for a long moment in muted silence. Even the hardened youth couldn't hide the crack of pain that pierced through his shadowed eyes as he left. Was it something he said?

Hwoarang didn't enjoy doing anything that someone else ordered him to, but in the Korean military, he had no choice. True, he loved his country, but there was so much more to life! 

He was currently immersed in a brief moment of relaxation, stretched out on a cot with his fingers laced behind his head. Other young men of the base mingled back and forth around the small bunker, reading letters, perusing dirty magazines, laughing and chattering to each other in Korean. Hwoarang never got any letters from anyone. His old street gang had been less than thrilled to hear that their Blood Talon was leaving to become some military brat, and leadership had fallen to the second-in-command without a word. Like wolves, their loyalties were to the strong. 

He rolled over on his cot and stared at the wall next to him. There was nothing to this life besides surviving one mission after another. His superiors respected him for the way he handled the missions thrown at him, and his talent at Tae Kwon Do, but he was arrogant and self-important, and that brought Hwoarang his share of time cleaning the barracks' toilets. Even then, nothing seemed to quench the flame-haired Korean's attitude. 

Growling to himself, he rolled over on his other side to watch his allies mill about like ants. Could he even call half of them his friends? The majority of them were intimidated by Hwoarang's in-your-face attitude. They probably only got along with him because they were scared of him. That thought both brought him pleasure and pain. He just wasn't accepted like he was with his gang. They accepted him through thick and thin. Even through the fight with Jin Kazama. 

Kazama. The mere thought of that goody-two-shoes Japanese boy brought a sneer to Hwoarang's lips. They had fought one day, and it ended up turning out to be a draw. A draw! The Blood Talon doesn't draw; he wins. Well, that day was a day to remember, and it still burned in his memory like the fires of hell. He both respected and hated Jin for matching his abilities. Even two years later, he had yet to forget the humiliation of bleeding on the ground alongside his old rival. 

Hwoarang was snapped out of his reverie by exclamations of surprise. Most of the bunker's occupants gathered in the center of the room. Was there a fight? Immediately, he got to his feet and strode over to the commotion. He was easily one of the tallest of the men in the room, and his spiked red hair was a beacon telling others to move out of the way. And move they did, until Hwoarang was near the center of attention. Most of the young men's eyes were on him for some odd reason and all their interested glances sent a shiver down his spine.

"What?" he grunted. Finally, he was where most of the attention was focused. One younger rail of a boy clung to a magazine like it was a lifeline. He peered up at Hwoarang with wide-eyed full of awe and fear. There was all of this excitement, over a stupid magazine? There had better be something interesting he was holding, or else Hwoarang was going to be pissed. 

"Let me see that," he simply held out his hand and let the boy place the rolled-up reading material into his awaiting palm. Unrolling it, it wasn't even a dirty magazine. Disappointment was slowly creeping up onto him. Nothing could be this interesting unless it had something to do with women. 

His name was being whispered through the crowd. Hwoarang looked up with mild annoyance as he ceased flipping through the pages of the magazine. 

"Ok, what the hell, guys? What on earth is in this…"

"Page 42, sir," the wide-eyed new kid spoke up. Hwoarang lifted an eyebrow and skimmed to the aforementioned page. What he saw on that page, he couldn't have prepared himself for. He thought his heart would cease beating in his chest. For a moment, he had to remember how to breathe again. 

"Another Iron Fist Tournament…?" Hwoarang whispered, reading the Han'gul on the page as fast as his brain could process. "The entire Mishima Financial Empire to the winner?"

His blood pounded in his ears. He almost didn't feel the grasp of someone's hand on his arm, shaking him back into reality. 

"You were in the last one, Hwoarang! You should get out of here and join again!"

"Join again?" his words seemed like they were coming from someone else's mouth. The Mishima Financial Empire, at his command? Maybe even better, the thrill of hand-to-hand combat? Beating the snot out of some 70ish year old man and the rest of the challengers? 

And there was no doubt in his mind. Jin Kazama would be there. 

"I'll see you there, you bastard!" he whispered to himself with a muted smirk. 

Triumphantly, Hwoarang held the magazine over his head and let out a shout of glee. The entire barrack cheered with him. Outside, a few patrolling officers wondered what the hell was going on…

Jin watched as the clouds rolled by the window of the airplane. Being inside a flying hunk of steel was not his idea of freedom and safety. It took a good amount of internal debate to set foot on the plane in the first place. His other choice was to invoke the devil within and fly to his destination, but it didn't seem wise wasting all that energy trying to cross over the ocean. 

The plane trip was making him nervous, and visibly so. The passengers sitting next to Jin shuffled about in their seats almost as much as the handsome Japanese man did, but opted to take advantage of the plane's alcoholic beverages being served to soothe their rattled nerves. Soon, they didn't care how much Jin squirmed in his seat, or how many times he crossed or uncrossed his legs in a minute. They were lost to an alcohol-induced stupor, and fell still. 

Jin was glad the other passengers in his aisle decided to have a little drink. That way, he could pull out his laptop without fear of nosy people glancing over his shoulder, or asking what he was up to. He flipped down the tray in front of him and clicked his computer on. The laptop was a small luxury Jin afforded himself during his time in Brisbane. He couldn't dip into his grandfather's plentiful resources anymore. Jin knew his days of training and luxury would soon come to an end, he just didn't realize how violent of an end it would end up being. 

Very little resided on his plain navy blue desktop: an icon for an Internet surfing program, his C drive icon, and a word program titled "Journal". Jin double-clicked on the word program. 

His eyes grew dark as he looked over his last entry. There was so much self-pity there, so much loathing about everything that he was, and everything that his family was. It seemed that the only part of Jin that was left was the part that hated what he had become. Was the devil in more control of his body and thoughts than he knew? The words that were typed across the computer screen didn't even seem like they would come from a quiet young man like Jin. 

"Do I even know who I am anymore?" he whispered to himself. 

Jin couldn't read his last entry anymore. There had to be something-positive hiding within two years of sporadic emotional outbursts on his computer. He began to scroll through the days. Days turned into months. The months passed into a year. How much angst could be held within 128 megabytes of RAM? Too much, obviously. 

He noticed how much more concerned he was about other people before, and now he only seemed to write about himself, or his family. There were so many theories about the origins of his father's evil and the psychology of his grandfather as time went on, and less and less concern about anyone else. 

In the first half of his first year in Brisbane, many of his entries were directed towards his mother. They read in such a way that it seemed like they were letters unsent. 

Mother, 

Finally, I can get rid of scribbling notes onto paper in lieu of typing! My thoughts get out so much faster this way. There are plenty of them, I'll tell you that much. 

Nobody seems to care about me here. Brisbane is a nice place, but I feel so trapped on an island out in the middle of nowhere. I catch myself every now and again watching the skies, just waiting for the Tekkenshu to come flying in on their helicopters to take me away. I wonder if Heihachi would rather have me imprisoned, or flat-out killed? He didn't seem bothered with having his men shooting me, or 'finishing' the job himself with a bullet to my brain…

I know I won't be able to visit anymore, and I'm sorry. I think I'm hoping that you'll be reading the things I type over my shoulder as I type them. 

I'll keep hiding. But I wish I could have protected you like you're doing for me now. I won't thank the devil within me for anything. I thank you for saving my life and carrying me to safety. But how long does it last? 

I'm sorry, mother. I shouldn't question you.

It's my birthday in a few days. I'll be twenty. Can you believe that? 

Anyway, I have karate soon. I'll never forget what you taught me, but I have to forget everything that grandfather taught me. I know it's the right thing to do. There is evil in his art, and I've sworn to never use it again. 

And please, keep an eye on Xiaoyu for me. You know she's like a little sister to me. I can't let her know I'm alive, though. It'd break her heart. She's sporadic enough to do something crazy, like come looking for me, and I know Heihachi would follow. He's probably just waiting for her to try something. She doesn't deserve to go through anything like I went through. So, keep her safe. 

I love you. 

Jin slowly closed the screen to his laptop with a soft click. Leaning back into his chair, he put his face in his hands and let out a sigh that sounded more like a sob. 

Operation: Tekken went off as smooth as planned. Hwoarang knew he could only trust a few select people to help him sneak out of the military base, and even they needed to be … persuaded. He was down a few boxes of cigarettes, a couple dozen magazines, and a plethora of assorted munchies, but in the end he was out, and that's all that mattered. Woe to the young man confronted by an angry officer the next morning! When or if Hwoarang ever decided to come back, he'd be in big trouble. 

That's exactly how he liked it. Living on the edge. That was Blood Talon style. 

After two years on a military base, being this free was like a slice of heaven. He was high above his homeland, cheek pressed against the window of the airplane as he tried to gaze upon the ground below. Nobody could catch him up here. Hwoarang managed to squeeze out a sly smile before settling himself back into his seat. 

Soon enough, he told himself, he would feel the thrill of fighting. The other opponents he didn't know, and frankly didn't care who they were. In his mind, the only opponent worthy of the Blood Talon's skills was Jin Kazama. And this time, there would be no draw.

With thoughts of self-assured victory settling quite nicely into his brain, Hwoarang closed his eyes and let himself drift off into peaceful sleep. 

Jin was more than eager to go to the registration site as soon as he got off of the plane, but found himself almost overcome by the sensation of jet lag. Even the devil inside him seemed oddly placid. His feet drug across the carpet of the airport as he slowly made his way to a pay phone. He had to find a hotel, and soon, or else he'd lose the tournament before it even began. 

This was Japan, his home. He knew his way around, and dialed a number for a hotel nearby the registration area, setting himself up with a room. Everything seemed to be going smoothly. It was too eerie. 

Jin hung up the phone with deliberate slowness, looking over each shoulder in turn. What was going to jump out of the shadows to attack him, now? Which one of these people walking by was a spy, Heihachi's eyes and ears? People walking by wouldn't even meet his gaze. To them, he was just another face in the crowd, in the way of the flow of foot traffic, and therefore ignored unless directed ran into. 

Paranoid and dizzy, Jin stumbled his way through the expanse of the airport with his luggage in hand. 

Outside, the fresh air helped bring Jin's eyes and brain back into focus. The city was alive with life, hustling and bustling about like ants. Cars and taxis alike vied for position to leave the airport, heading down the turnpike and out of sight. Jin stood there like a statue, marveling at all the life happening around him. Two years purposefully sheltering himself from outside contact, and being back home was culture shock. 

A taxi pulled to a stop in front of him. Forgetting to put his luggage into the trunk, he simply pulled it into the back seat with him and shut the door. Thankfully, the cab was empty, except for him and the driver. 

"Where to?" the driver asked in Japanese. Even his native tongue sounded odd in Jin's ears after his time in Australia. He managed to mumble out directions to his hotel before sinking into his seat, clutching his duffel bag to his chest like a child would to a stuffed animal. 

He must have dozed off, because the driver was turned around in his seat, knocking on the dividing glass between the front and back seats, trying to get Jin's attention. Jin opened his eyes with an almost visibly pained effort, squinting at the driver in a mixture of annoyance and relief.

"We're here, kid. Wake up."

Jin nodded, slipping some yen into the slot of the glass divider. He wondered idly where he got the yen from, but it was the least of his concerns at the moment. When he was a little more conscious, he would run through his events of the day in detail. 

The driver nodded, satisfied with the payment, and left Jin on the curb to the hotel, speeding off to join the rest of the traffic. When the cabbie was with the flow of cars, he slipped a cell phone from his pocket and auto-dialed a number.

"Mishima-sama? Jin Kazama is here."

"Excellent," came the voice from the other end of the line, gravelly and rough with age, yet holding a tone that could cow a wild animal into doing stupid pet tricks, "That's exactly what I wanted to hear." 

The phone disconnected in the driver's ear without another word. 

It was late by the time Hwoarang's plane landed, but the Korean youth felt oddly invigorated being back on the island of Japan. He strode with confidence off of the plane, much to the envy of the other passengers on board, who were sluggish and moody from the flight. 

He checked his watch. He would have just enough time to register for the tournament before checking into his hotel. Perfect! Hwoarang made haste to grab his luggage from the ring and head outside. Backpack and duffel in hand, he managed to wave down a taxi with some effort. 

The taxi driver eyed Hwoarang's flaming, spiky red hair and hawkish features before asking, "Where to?" 

Hwoarang slowly gave the driver directions in broken Japanese as he twisted the strap on his duffel bag back and forth with nervous energy. 

"You fight?"

"Yeah," he grinned, "I'm here for the Iron Fist Tournament."

The driver had obviously known that, or else he wouldn't have asked if the Korean fought in the first place. The boy seemed so excited to get registered that he didn't bother pointing out the fact that he already knew. He simply nodded and let the conversation slip into silence. 

The cab wasn't even parked before Hwoarang shoved fare into the slot and pulled himself out of the car and onto the curb. The driver chuckled and thanked Hwoarang before pulling off into the night.

"Name?"

"Hwoarang."

The receptionist gazed up at the attractive red headed young man standing in front of her. He had to be a good six feet of mostly leg. "Surname?"

"Don't have one."

"…ok," she hesitated, "then I just need you to sit down and fill out these forms."

Hwoarang made himself comfortable in the small office, setting his luggage next to his chair as he took a seat. It was oddly empty. Of course, it was late, and the receptionist looked like she would rather go home and sleep than wait on another stack of forms. Then again, Hwoarang noticed as she handed him a clipboard full of forms and contracts, she kept looking him over as if she was either assessing him for a fight or a date. She wasn't even being shy about it. Her eyes kept locking with his, and she wouldn't leave his gaze. It went from flattering to unnerving. 

Hwoarang went to work filling out the paperwork. There was name, age, and martial art, all of the basics. Then term agreements, insurance policies. Prize collection and what it entailed. That was a small novel in itself. 

After what seemed like forever, Hwoarang handed back the clipboard with a sigh of relief. The receptionist managed a curt nod and pointed a small digital camera towards him.

"Profile shot. Feel free to not smile."

Before Hwoarang could give her an odd look, the picture was taken.

"Come back tomorrow for your card and instructions."

Thoroughly weirded out by the receptionist's erratic behavior, Hwoarang left feeling much less energetic than he was when he arrived. 

"Now, where were we?" a female voice lilted through the room. "Right," the tall, slender figure stepped out from behind a filing cabinet, a small gun with a silencer clenched in her gloved fist, "I think I needed a few forms…"

"N-Name?" the receptionist stammered.

"Williams. Nina Williams." 

The morning came all too quickly for Jin. His sleep was filled with nightmares that left his sheets soaked with sweat and his eyelids feeling all too heavy. No matter how much he tossed and turned, or how tightly he drew the blinds to blot out the morning sun, he couldn't fall back asleep for the life of him. Mentally, he was too scared of the dreams, physically, he screamed for just another hour or two of rest. 

Nervous energy caused Hwoarang's sleep to be quite restless. He tossed and turned; limbs unconsciously twitching at he thought of driving each focused punch or powerful kick into his opponent's body. He was too excited to fall into and semblance of deep sleep, and when the alarm buzzed off at 9 am that morning, it was like he never slept at all. Groaning, he threw the blankets over his head and enjoyed the warm protection of the bed for as long as he could before he simply got bored. 

Trembling, Jin finally pulled himself out of bed, rubbing his hands down his clammy arms and bare chest. His entire body felt hot, but on the outside he was as chill as a winter's morning. All the sweating and unconscious exertion had raised his core body temperature, but cooled him on the outside. The entire sensation was uncomfortable. He had to get something to balance himself out. Wearing nothing but a pair or baggy gray pajama pants, Jin grabbed the complimentary ice bucket from the stand adjacent to his bed and went into the hall for some ice. His mouth was dry and hot; he was probably dehydrated by now. 

He watched his feet while he walked, shifting his gaze only slightly to remove the protective sanitary cover from inside the plastic bucket. Ever the conservative child, he wadded up the plastic into a ball and slid it into the pocket of his pants. His mother would be proud.

Jin didn't even have to look to notice he was nearing his destination. The steady hum of the ice machine could be heard from down the hall, if one listened closely enough. The sound of ice forming and dropping into the plastic bin startled him into looking up, just to see if something was wrong. 

Everything seemed normal. There was another person at the machine, filling their bucket with ice for the morning. What, don't most people drink coffee or tea anymore? Thirsty and tired, he stood behind the other person with a soft, if not annoyed sigh. The bucket seemed to be filling with agonizing slowness. Jin began drumming his fingers on his own container in sheer boredom. The bucket was almost entirely full, and still this person was filling it to the brim! Jin got the feeling whoever this was in front of him was deliberately trying to piss him off. He curled his upper lip into a sneer and bored a hole into the back of the person's skull with his gaze. This tall, red headed freak better hurry, any day now…

Hwoarang smirked to himself as he purposefully filled his ice bucket to the overflowing point and beyond. Whoever was behind him was in a hurry to go nowhere. Sometimes, a person had to learn a little patience! Besides, what was the person going to do? Kill him for filling up his ice too slowly? The second Dan black belt in Tae Kwon Do was hardly intimidated. 

Finally, the bucket was filled with enough ice it spilled as he slid it from the machine. Hwoarang couldn't help but smirk slightly as he turned around, ready to say something along the lines of, "I'm gonna make a snowman," or something else equally inane. The words slipped from his lips as he gazed at his archrival, Jin Kazama. The ice fell from his grip and landed on the floor with a thud, scattering crystal cubes everywhere. 

Jin blinked as the tall young man turned around and promptly dropped his ice on his foot. He hissed in pain, bending over to bat the bucket across the hall with the back of his fist. Was this idiot drunk? 

"Too much ice for you to carry?" Jin growled, still not realizing whom he was talking to as he rubbed his foot with his knuckles. 

Suddenly, he was pulled back into a vertical position by two rough hands on his bare shoulders, fingernails digging painfully into his flesh. His brain was sluggish to react, and Jin found himself slammed forcefully against the wall opposite the ice machine, trying to find purchase on the floor as his feet slipped and were prodded by hard chunks of ice. He almost lost his balance all together, but whoever was holding him up had him quite firmly pressed against the wall. 

Jin blinked into the rage-filled face hovering inches from his own. 

"Hwoarang?" it was more of a question than a statement. The Korean looked so different, lacking his golden-red locks in lieu of a short, spiked, red hairstyle that hung unkempt on his head. His features were even more prominent than before, and that was a feat. He had the same eyes though, amber orbs that burned with the same desire to maim as Jin had seen two years before. 

"You!" he hissed, fingers curling tighter around Jin's shoulders. "What the hell are you doing here?"

That seemed to be the question of the moment. "I'm here for the tournament, you idiot," Jin returned the sneer with equal viciousness. His hands curled into fists at his sides. It was more of a gesture of restraint than a threat to maim. The devil within him was stirring. 

Hwoarang looked about ready to smash his forehead into Jin's nose, when another hotel occupant rounded the corner in search of ice. He snatched his hands back from Jin's shoulders as if the skin was repulsive to his touch. To add to that, he wiped his hands across the flatness of his stomach, across his green tank top, just to emphasize his disgust. 

"I should fight you, here and now," Hwoarang leaned forward, so his lips hovered just over Jin's ear. "But I won't. I'll let everyone watch as I humiliate you. We won't draw this time, Kazama. I promise you that."

"You actually say something right for once," Jin replied smoothly, turning his head to meet Hwoarang's burning gaze only inches from his own. He could feel his own breath on his own cheek as it wafted off of the angry Korean's. "I'm going to beat you, because I don't have time for these childish rivalries. I'm going to beat you so badly you'll regret ever meeting me."

"You really think so?" Hwoarang arched a red eyebrow in defiance, "I think you're a cocky little rich boy, and I'm going to put you in your place."

"You don't know what you're getting in to, Korean. I'm warning you. Stay out of my way."

Hwoarang smirked, keeping his amber gaze locked with Jin's. "Listen to Mr. I-Have-An-Agenda. Whatever, Kazama. You're still the angry little Mishima bastard child I fought two years ago."

Suddenly, it was Hwoarang who was pinned up against the wall. The shift of position was so sudden; Hwoarang's head was slammed quite sharply into the paneling behind him. Jin's muscles bunched up in his arms, holding Hwoarang's shirt so tightly the seams began to stretch and pop with every breath the Korean took. 

"Fuck you, you piece of street trash…" Jin hissed with such venom, Hwoarang had to look twice just to make sure he was seeing the same person. Then he had to look three times, because his vision was swimming. 

Jin grew deathly still, tilting his head as if he was listening to a far off conversation. It wasn't far from the truth. Whoever had seen the escapade in the hallway had ratted on the two arguing men, and security guards were clomping noisily down the hall. 

With his hand still gripping Hwoarang's shirt like a lifeline, Jin yanked the struggling young man from the wall and down the hall the few feet it was to his room. The keycard was in and out of the slot before Hwoarang could issue a grunt of protest, and the two rivals disappeared into Jin's room as the guards rounded the corner to the hallway. The door clicked shut silently. 

Hwoarang got tangled up around Jin's feet and ended up sprawled across the carpet, slowly getting up with murderous intent in his eye. He trembled with rage from head to toe. Ignoring the spectacle of testosterone, Jin put a finger to his lips and exhaled softly. 

"Shh, shut the hell up, there's guards…"

"Why should I care that there are guards!?" Hwoarang replied, though his voice was the same hissed whisper. It was a rhetorical question. They both knew it was too close to tournament time, and who could fight when they're too busy collecting dust in a jail cell? Jin had more important reasons: Heihachi and the Tekkenshu. 

Hwoarang's question was answered with a sharp slug to the solar plexus from Jin's bare fist. He fell forward slightly, baring his teeth to his rival in a good impression of a wild animal's snarl. In reply, Hwoarang slammed his fist into the side of Jin's thigh, along a delicate cluster of nerve endings that caught the Japanese boy by surprise. He fell to a knee as his leg went dead under him. They held each other's stare until the threat of the guards passed, making no other moves to maim each other in the process. It was a miracle. 

Hwoarang's shifting gaze unnerved Jin. It flicked from his forehead, to his eyes, and back again. Was the devil manifesting itself again? He lifted a hand to his forehead, feeling for the telltale nub of the devil's third eye. He found nothing. But Hwoarang had obviously seen something. 

"What the hell?" his voice was a whisper, "What's wrong with you?"

_"Kill him…"_

Jin clutched his hands to his hair and pulled sharply, trying to use the pain to make the devil inside shut up, but it only seemed to egg it on this time. He pulled harder, but the voice only seemed to grow louder, more insistent. 

_"Kill, maim, make him hurt, watch him bleed…"_

Hwoarang watched the internal struggle with a mixture of fear and fascination. Although he hated Jin for matching his skill, he had a grudging respect for the Japanese youth. Had he gone insane? Cautiously, Hwoarang held out a hand to Jin, unsure of what to do to aid the troubled young man. Rivalries were one thing. Internal conflict was another. Even Hwoarang wasn't low enough to kick a man while he was down. 

Black lines swirled and came into view across Jin's forehead. A dull red glow oozed out from between his fingers, making the hair he was gripping a dark crimson. Hwoarang fell backward in shock, crawling away from Jin crab-like until he was a safe distance away.

Or so he thought. 

Jin trembled down on his haunches before launching himself at Hwoarang, tackling him with such force the two of them slid feet across the unyielding carpet. Before Hwoarang could yelp in pain from the abrupt case of rug-burn, Jin clamped a taloned hand over his mouth. The Korean's eyes were wide and wild, watching Jin's transformation with pure, cold fear. 

Jin glared down at his rival with orbs that burned crimson, mirroring the glow from the crack in his forehead that opened to reveal a glowing mockery of a third eye. Black lines crawled across his forehead and down his nose like small serpents. He opened his mouth in a silent scream, eyes squeezing shut as his shoulders bunched and shook. Hwoarang watched in horror as black wings burst from Jin's back, unfurling to their greatest length, pinions grazing the ceiling. He tried to scream, but Jin's hand held him fast. 

This wasn't even Jin he was looking at anymore. This was a devil. 

_"Hurt him, hurt him, humiliate him…"_ the words fell from Jin's unmoving lips, eyes opening up once again to peer down at the trembling man under him. Bird-like, he tilted his head at Hwoarang this way and that, digging the claws of his free hand into the vulnerable flesh of his neck. The redhead shut his eyes and whimpered. Never before had he felt so powerless. Never before had he encountered a being of such evil. 

Jin's hand slowly peeled off of Hwoarang's mouth. The Korean was too frightened to scream, and it was probably the smartest thing he had ever done. 


	2. Chapter 2: Differences

Hwoarang watched as Jin's hand flexed and trembled inches from his face, inch-long talons threatening to dip down and slice open his throat if he even blinked wrong. But it wasn't a gesture to harm or to intimidate; Jin was trying to regain control. It took a moment of bravery, but finally Hwoarang peeled his eyes from the shaking appendage to peer up into Jin's face. It was twisted into a mask of pain, eyes shut, lips peeled back from his teeth in a pained grimace. The black lines that crawled across his face faded in and out of existence with every shaky breath the young man took. 

"Jin," Hwoarang managed to whisper, finding it harder to breathe under the bulky Japanese's weight, "Jin, fight it, damn it. You're going to kick my ass in the tournament, right? Not this … Jin, are you listening to me?"

_"He is not listening to you!" _Jin's voice came out as an unearthly shriek of rage, black lines and glowing eye flaring open in one last attempt to regain control. The Korean choked on his own fear, twisting his head to the side as Jin's arms came up, as if to strike the final blow. There was a rustle of wings and the sound of rushing air, and then silence. 

Hwoarang didn't realize he was holding his breath until the seconds began to tick by in silence. He wasn't dead; he could still feel his heart pounding a steady cadence in his chest. His eyes had been shut so tightly tears began to form at their edges. He exhaled and opened his eyes at the same time, turning his head with pained slowness to look at the still figure hovering over him. 

Jin had his eyes shut and his head bowed until his chin was resting on his chest. The black wings that shadowed him were gone, as were the crawling lines across his nose and forehead. The eye had recessed into nothingness. All that was left was a broken shell of a human, twitching with restraint and self-loathing. Upon lingering examination, tears dripped from Jin's black lashed lids and made glimmering trails down his cheeks. A tear dripped from his jaw and landed on Hwoarang's collarbone, causing the redhead to jump, startled by the display of self-control and unabashed emotion. 

Almost immediately, Jin jumped into motion, crawling off of Hwoarang without a word of apology or protest. He hardly found the time to find his footing, half-crawling, half walking over to his bed with feverish intensity. He had to get away. Somewhere, anywhere, but nowhere was far enough to hide him from himself. Jin collapsed at the foot of his bed as Hwoarang watched, too shocked to make a motion to help, too shaken up to find his voice. With only his elbows propped up on the bed itself, Jin took a few deep breaths and hung his head, then went still. 

It seemed like an eternity before Hwoarang managed to whisper, "Jin?" but he was answered with silence. He sat up and tried again, slowly inching his way towards the seemingly unconscious raven-haired youth. "Jin? Damn you if you're asleep … you've got a few questions to answer."

Jin's breathing came deep and even. He was fast asleep. Hwoarang sighed. "Damned indeed." 

_"Look into me and despair, Jin Kazama. How long will you fight something that never dies? Awaken you pitiful human. Face yourself. Loathe your disgusting existence. I am eternal."_

Jin sat up with a start, gasping for breath. Again, he found his body coated in a fine sheen of sweat. Was again even an option? Had he been dreaming of waking up and encountering his old rival? He was still in his bed, still in his pajamas, the sunlight still trying to filter its way through the thick hotel room curtains. It couldn't have been a dream. It was all too real…

The sound of his toilet flushing caused Jin to yelp in surprise. Hwoarang poked his head out of the bathroom, one eyebrow lifted in question. "Please tell me you don't have a fear of toilets."

Jin didn't know whether or not to cry or to laugh at the Korean's attempt at humor. He simply stared slack jawed, and received a stare in reply. It hadn't been a dream. Had he really assaulted Hwoarang as he lost control of his devil?

"You're looking at me like you're seeing a ghost, Jin," the Korean stepped from the bathroom, wiping his hands on a complimentary towel, "Listen, if you're going to apologize, don't … just…"

"Shut up, Hwoarang, just shut up. Please," it was a plea, not a command. "Now you see what you've gotten yourself into? What I did, what I am? Are you happy?" Jin's last words came out as a hissed whisper. 

"Happy that I almost got myself killed by whatever it is you are?" Hwoarang snapped in reply, shaking the towel at the defeated Japanese youth before him, who hung his head like a wounded child, "Of course I'm not happy, or even slightly pleased. But I had the stupidity to stick around after you went out like a light, making sure you didn't do anything else stupid, like attack a random person who wouldn't be quite as understanding." The lie seemed to go over quite well. 

"Understanding? You don't understand, you couldn't. You can't even sympathize."

Hwoarang's face grew red with rage, from collarbone to the top of his forehead. He threw the towel he was holding to the ground. "Even now, you can't even attempt a single thank you, you ungrateful bastard! You sit there and feel sorry for yourself, wallowing in your own misery! You're not the person I knew, the one I remembered fighting two years ago. That Jin Kazama didn't quit. He was worthy of fighting me. And look how you've changed. You make me sick, you pathetic excuse of a man! You're hardly worth my time."

Jin was struck speechless. He continued staring at the enraged redhead, who had ranted himself into breathlessness. He couldn't even meet his rival's gaze, instead looking at the floor in defeat. Perhaps Hwoarang was right. He was too weak to fight him, the devil, Heihachi, his father, anyone. "If I'm such a worthless case, then why are you still standing there?" Jin murmured tiredly.

"Because I thought you might fight what I said. But by just sitting there like a worthless lump, you're only proving my point to yourself. You think I'm right."

"I think you're just enjoying taunting me."

"Then why don't you get up and make me shut up? Stand up and kick my ass! C'mon, pretty boy! Get up!" Hwoarang kicked the air for emphasis, "Get up!" 

Jin turned to glare, only to be assaulted by a bar of hotel soap that ricocheted painfully off the side of his head. Hwoarang stood in the small hallway, tossing another small bar of soap up and down in his hand. 

"Get out of my room," Jin hissed, pointing to the door, "now."

The Korean smirked. "Make me."

"I'm not going to fall for your childish little games, you immature, ignorant…"

"Sticks and stones, Jin. People in glass houses…throw soap!" Hwoarang reeled back and let the complimentary hotel accessory fly through the air, on a crash course with Jin's head. It seemed like the projectile was going to hit its mark, when Jin's hand snapped up and caught the offensive cleaning product only a foot from his head. His lips curled up over his teeth as he crushed the soap in his fist. 

Hwoarang sighed and shook his head. "If you have to get angry before you fight back, you're going to lose. I don't have to tell you that," he began to slowly walk towards the seething Jin, "I don't care what you want, or what you are. You need to get up," cautiously, Hwoarang sat on the edge of the bed. 

Jin sighed and rolled over until his back was to the tall redhead, "Why the hell do you care?"

"Because I'm human. Just like you. Besides, we have a rematch to take care of."

The raven-haired youth glanced over his shoulder, "You're right. We do." 

"I'll see you there, then," Jin could almost hear the grin in Hwoarang's voice. He didn't quite understand why the Korean was so eager to get beaten up again. Oh well. 

The bed shifted as Hwoarang stood, slowly making his way to the door. "Oh, Hwoarang?"

He turned, one red eyebrow arched in question. "What, damn-?" 

A ball of soap flew across the room and connected solidly with Hwoarang's nose before he could complete his statement. "You son-of-a-bitch!" he yelled, crumpling over with a hand over his newfound injury. 

Jin laughed. Hwoarang bled. Life was looking up. 


	3. Chapter 3: Inquiry

A few hours passed before Jin could finally pull himself free of the warm confines of his bed, dreading the process of registering for the fourth Iron Fist tournament. It was two years since he gave anyone more than his first name. Those were the lucky people. 

No one was pounding on his door, calling his hotel phone, or slipping him notes in his room service. The process of reassuring himself he was still an unknown in Japan was a slow one, almost as slow as the process of extracting himself from his sheets. Only Hwoarang knew he was here, and that first meeting had been anything but pleasant. Who would he tell, anyway? Who would believe you when you told them you came face to face with a monster? 

Jin shook his head and got dressed, pulling on a tight black tank top, followed by a hooded purple jacket embroidered with golden flames, then the pants to match. His penchant for flames had never left him, even after two years of near solitude. They matched his personality: controllable yet dangerous. At the same time, he resented the fiery symbolism. His grandfather's guidance had only succeeded in bringing out the devil within. The devil was no fire; it was a raging inferno. It was 17 years of his mother's nurturing hand that gave him the will he clung to this day. That will was what kept the fire under control.

Where was that control when he accosted Hwoarang? Surely it wasn't just the redhead's biting attitude that made him rage like he did, though it was probably a good catalyst. There was the stress of the tournament, the constant nagging voice in his head telling him to destroy that what gave him life; the Korean just happened to be the unlucky person to receive the brunt end of Jin's anger. Even the gang leader didn't deserve to be attacked in such a way. 

Jin chuckled to himself. It was dark and humorless. Hwoarang was still hell bent on resolving their old score; a fight that ended up in a draw. Jin had to give him credit; he was as stubborn as a bull. Two years of holding a grudge was no small task. He wondered idly if there were more reasons for him to enter the tournament besides a good fight. If there weren't a reason, it wouldn't surprise him.

"Name?"

Jin jumped slightly. Had he been musing to himself all the way to the registration site? He found himself in an office with a receptionist, looking ready to file him in with the other entrants, but less than eager to do so. 

"Kazama, Jin."

He received the same look from the receptionist that he had gotten from Hwoarang: a slack-jawed, pale-faced, blank stare with no vocal accompaniment. Jin blinked. She stared. Jin blinked in reply to the silence. 

"Jin Kazama?"

He hesitated before answering quietly. "Yes."

It felt like his stomach fell to his knees. This could be it. Tekkenshu could come running around the corner with guns blazing at the mere mention of his name. An alarm could go off and Heihachi could come strolling in from the back room with a gun trained on Jin's head. But there was nothing, only another pause of awkward silence before the young woman gestured to an uncluttered chair. "Please, have a seat Jin-san. A picture is required of all the entrants."

If that wasn't the icing on the cake, nothing was. Jin slowly found his legs again, then gracelessly flopped down into the chair. There was no turning back now. His stomach had oozed its way from his toes and was now pinballing around his chest with his heart. Heihachi would have his picture, his registration information, and the knowledge that he was back in Japan.

A flash dazed him momentarily. The picture had been taken. All this thinking was catching him off guard time and time again. He would either have to go mindlessly forward, or let fate have her way with him. 

"Thank you, that will be all. Please return later to pick up your photo identification and more information."

"Something isn't right," Jin shook his head at the receptionist, who shifted in her seat uncomfortably. It reminded him of the people on the airplane. "What about all the other paperwork? There's more to this than a simple hello, a picture, and a goodbye."

"All the registration information for one Kazama, Jin has been completed."

Jin's thick eyebrows shot up like fireworks on his brow as his lips parted in silent shock. "What?" was all he could utter at the clueless, naive young woman. She didn't seem to catch his sudden change of facial expressions. Her well-manicured fingers were flipping through piles of manila and paper, eyes glued to her tedious chore. It took her only seconds to find a folder neatly labeled, "Kazama, Jin." She passed it across to Jin, who took it with an unsteady hand. 

Everything was signed in a hand that was not his. The pressure of the pen was clearly defined in each stroke, a constant stream of black drawn with a powerful grip. Every letter was too perfect English. It screamed Heihachi Mishima in every arch, line and curve. Why would such a powerful man go out of his way to forge a few documents for his missing grandson?

He was expecting him to come. That was the only rational explanation Jin could think of. The mere thought sent such a cold shiver down his spine the folder nearly slid off of his lap. 

"Are you alright?"

"No," Jin replied frankly, gently pushing his registration information back onto the table. It was then when something caught his eye. A sliver of a label attached to yet another folder poked out of the pile of papers, simply begging for Jin's attention. Although only part of the name could be seen, the first five letters was all he needed: K A Z U Y- 

He snatched the information from the rest of the pile, flipping it open in his lap before the receptionist could even squeak in protest. When she caught her voice, she said, "You cannot look at the other registrants' information prior to the match!" Her hand reached for the folder.

There was no photo for Kazuya Mishima, although every form was signed, every "I" dotted and every "T" crossed in the same perfect English as Jin's folder. That was all he needed to see. Jin let the angry woman snatch back her precious information, setting in her lap as if she dared Jin to grab it from such a forbidden place. The show of possessiveness made Jin almost chuckle. Almost. 

"My apologies," Jin stood and began walking to the door. The strength he still had in his legs surprised him. Jell-O wasn't supposed to have such a strong stride. 

He paused. The receptionist looked up at the dark young man as she slowly put Kazuya's folder back onto her table. Her fingers lingered on the vanilla-colored paper, as if that would prevent Jin from taking the folder if he wished to do so. That was the last thing on his mind, now. 

He quietly walked back over to the desk. "I forgot something about my application."

The woman gave him a dubious look, but it was his own information after all. "Kazama, Jin" was slid back to its rightful owner. Jin opened the file and plucked a pen from a lily-shaped penholder at the edge of the table. 

He scribbled something out, set the pen down, and left. 

The receptionist turned the file towards her when the young Japanese man left the office, searching for the blatant mistake. Under the question of "Fighting Style", the previous answer was still barely visible: Mishima Style Fighting Karate. Now all that was left was "Karate". 

She frowned and shut the folder. What did it matter, really? 

Hwoarang never thought of Jin as predictable or even normal. Two years ago, Jin seemed like a quiet young man with a secret dark side, hidden from the rest of the world behind his grandfather's gilded cage. The type of boy who would be the last one blamed for anything. It was a twisted type of innocence. But that innocent young man fought like a devil, the same thing he was fueled by. 

Things were starting to fall into place. 

His quiet, reserved nature was all a farce. No one would dare think that Jin Kazama, of all people, held a monster under his skin. Clever, but not clever enough. Hwoarang had seen first hand what Jin Kazama truly was, and to defeat him, he had to study him. 

The Korean had followed Jin as he walked through the hotel lobby, being his silent little shadow. Special operations training in the Korean military gave Hwoarang an edge over your average stalker. He knew how to stick to a person's blind side, keeping the target within the line of sight, too close yet too far. Hwoarang was just an unassuming passerby with an agenda, just like everyone else. 

There was an alleyway across from the registration site that hid Hwoarang's lithe form quite well. There were no windows to the office, but what goes in must come out, after all. But before he could make himself comfortable, Jin had come strolling right back out, much to the redhead's confusion. He might be superhuman, but even that was fast for filing pamphlets of paperwork. 

Jin walked down the street, heading back to the hotel. His hood was up, hiding his face from view. Hwoarang took note of that with idle amusement. Was the great Jin Kazama ashamed of what he truly was? Was the poor little baby going to hide in his hotel room and cry until the tournament began? 

Hwoarang's new study had gone from boring back to pathetic. There was nothing to watch here. Only a sulking young man, hiding himself from the curious eyes of the world. 

But then Jin stumbled, throwing his hand against an adjacent wall for support. Hwoarang's auburn eyebrow arched as he slowed his pace, watching his rival from across the street and behind him about a half of a block. The Japanese man was hunched over, his free hand pressed over his heart. Was he sick? 

Whatever it was cleared within seconds, and Jin continued on down the street on less-than stable legs. Hwoarang noticed that his pace was faster than before, his head lolling down so far it was amazing to think he could even see what was in front of him. His forearm passed across his face then fell back to his side. He was crying. 

The psychological burden on Jin's shoulders must have been heavier than Hwoarang thought, and it gave the Korean a slight twinge of guilt. He was here because of the thrill of fighting, while Jin was obviously following some kind of troubling agenda all his own. Was there some kind of tension between him and his powerful grandfather that needed resolution, or was Jin just in it for the prize? 

So many questions were running through Hwoarang's brain. He tugged on his hair in sheer frustration. Here he was, trailing Jin for answers, and all he was unearthing were more questions. Pride prevented Hwoarang from asking Jin up front what his issues were. Concern was weakness. 

Jin moved into the hotel lobby so fast, Hwoarang had to trot just to keep him in his sights. He seemed to be running from something, but from what? No matter how fast he moved, he simply couldn't escape from himself. 

It was then when Hwoarang truly pitied Jin. He was a broken shell of a man, with so many issues he could fill up a magazine stand. At this point, he wouldn't even get past his first match. 

Hwoarang slid into the elevator alongside Jin, giving up on shadowing for some straight up answers. The doors slid shut, and they found themselves alone together in a confined space with no blood being drawn. 

Jin was staring intently at the floor, reaching up to tap his finger against the button for his floor. He didn't notice Hwoarang's intent gaze fixed on his head, waiting for him to start spilling the beans. The elevator hummed into motion, and the silence hung thick in the air. Jin could have cared less if he was alone in the elevator, or with a throng of people. He simply wanted to be alone, in his room, awaiting his destiny. 

Hwoarang's cheeks flushed red in anger. Any more pressure in his head, and he'd have another nosebleed. "Kazama!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the moving metal box. 

Jin's reflexes were suddenly hyper-acute. His hands were up in a defensive stance before he even registered who was standing next to him. Swollen, red eyes blinked at the glowering redheaded Korean. 

"What … you … Hwoarang?"

"We need to talk." 

Jin's hands dropped slightly. "I'm sorry for attacking you," he said flatly.

"Idiot. I don't care about that."

The elevator doors slid open. Jin looked to the hallway beyond. "What? What do you want?"

There was that cold, passionless voice Hwoarang was expecting. It reminded him of himself two years ago: flippant and distant. "Answers."

A soft snort came from the depths of Jin's hood before he stepped into the hallway. Hwoarang followed right behind. "What, Jin? Ashamed I caught you crying?"

He didn't even break stride. "You were following me?"

Hwoarang shrugged. The gesture was lost on Jin. "Know thine enemy. Though I don't know why you're my enemy. You're hardly a threat."

"I'm tired of your taunts," Jin sighted softly, pulling his keycard from his pocket. "If you're trying to care, why don't you try civility?"

The Korean choked on his own voice. The realization slowly dawned on him that he was being quite the asshole. "Fine, Jin, fine. I'm sorry."

"Virgin words?" 

"Take your own advice…" Hwoarang growled. 

Jin smirked and opened the door to his hotel room. "After you."

Hwoarang had a sudden sinking feeling and hesitated outside the door, glancing at Jin for the briefest of moments. Their eyes met, and neither would release the other from their stares of superiority. 

Jin's eyebrow rose, "What?"

"I don't know. I think I feel disappointed," Hwoarang shook his head and entered the hotel room, with a slightly confused Jin following behind. 


	4. Chapter 4: Explanation

"Disappointed?" Jin asked once the door was shut securely behind him, "Oh, I get it. You're just trying to piss me off again, aren't you? Yeah, I'm such a big disappointment, cry me a river."

Hwoarang peeled off the olive green coat he was wearing, throwing it onto the back of a nearby chair. He shook his head with a tired sigh. "Jin, more talking. Less angst."

He pulled out a chair for himself and sat down, pushing out another chair with his foot for Jin. The small table that separated them didn't seem like room enough, but it would suffice. Any kind of barrier between him and the demon-boy was better than no barrier at all. 

Jin sat down across from Hwoarang, slowly unzipping his coat as he began speaking. "I don't know where to start, really. This isn't something you just sit down and talk about over tea with a friend."

Something amused Hwoarang, because he grinned, "Well, we're not drinking tea and I'm not your friend, so why don't you just start at the beginning?"

"The beginning," Jin nodded, "Ok." He took a deep breath and slowly let it out.

"My mother, Jun, participated in the second Iron Fist Tournament, where she met my father, Kazuya Mishima. Kazuya was Heihachi Mishima's son, who usurped the Mishima Zaibatsu from him after the first Iron Fist Tournament."

"Boy, how could anyone fall in love with a Mishima?" Hwoarang smirked, resting his chin in his hand. His smirk slowly faded when he noticed Jin wasn't paying any attention to him. His gaze was fixed on the table. 

"My mother never liked to talk about my father, but when I got older, she became more open and honest with me. Eventually, she told me that my father had been …possessed by a demon. There was good in his heart somewhere, she said. My mother," Jin laughed quietly, "she loved everything. So she loved my father. I don't know if he loved her back. It doesn't matter now."

"So, what happened to your father?"

Jin was still watching the table; "He was murdered."

"What? How? By who?"

"My grandfather, Heihachi. Threw him into a volcano."

Hwoarang simply blinked in disbelief. "He what?"

"He probably thought he was ridding the world of some great evil. In some way, he was right. Kazuya was a devil. Some little treat he passed on to me."

"But you had said your father was possessed by a devil. How do you get possessed? Are you possessed?"

Jin shook his head. "No. When Kazuya was a child, his father threw him off a cliff. Said that if he were strong, he would survive and climb back up. Kazuya lived, but barely. He let the devil possess him at his weakest point, at the brink of death. The devil gave him strength to climb back up."

"Good god, that's fucked up."

"You're telling me. So Kazuya grew up. With the help of the devil, grew more powerful than his father, and delivered some poetic justice. Threw him off a cliff for revenge."

"Let me get this straight," Hwoarang tapped his finger on the table, "Heihachi throws Kazuya off a cliff. Kazuya throws Heihachi off a cliff. You mom likes dysfunctional families. Falls in love with your father for some odd reason, then Heihachi throws Kazuya into a volcano. You're born. So, what happened to you? If you're not possessed, then what?"

"Fast forward to four years ago. Things are fine, I'm living with my mother, and I'm 17 years old. Life seems normal. My mother gets a feeling that something is coming for her, and tells me to go to my grandfather. Surprisingly, the last place I wanted to go was to that psychotic old man who killed my father. So I stick around to watch my mother die."

"Ogre."

"Right. I tried to fight him, but I couldn't. He was too powerful … knocked me out cold. I woke up to the smoldering remains of my home. He gave me this," Jin pulled off his jacket and exposed the markings on his left arm. 

"Ogre gave you a tattoo?" 

"A brand, a marking … something. Maybe it was a reminder. My thinking is this; the devil is the only being strong enough to kill Ogre. Since he could sense it inside of me, he marked me with this brand. A big warning sign."

"So you ended up defeating Ogre."

"Actually, I was one of two people who bested Ogre. Paul Phoenix almost defeated Ogre, but left before Ogre turned into his real form: True Ogre. I defeated them both. So, in all technicality, I was the King of the Third Iron Fist tournament."

Hwoarang's eyebrows furrowed, "So why aren't you some rich bastard, driving expensive cars and throwing people off cliffs?"

"After I defeated True Ogre, I remember watching the Tekkenshu come through the doors of the temple. I didn't know what they were doing, so I thought they were there for backup, just in case True Ogre killed me. Didn't make any sense at the time. What really didn't make sense was when they opened fire on me…"

"They SHOT you?"

"Uh, yeah. So I was on the ground, and I saw my grandfather. He was last thing I had in the world, and he took care of me for two years, so I thought he was there to help me. Maybe there was some mistake. I reached out to him … and he shot me in the head. One shot. Point blank."

"I don't believe you."

"Listen. It hurt, but it didn't kill me. It was his betrayal that finally caused the devil within me to awaken. All the hate, all the anger in me welled up at that one point. The devil did the same for me as it did for my father. There was nothing else I could do but let it take control. I watched as it disabled the Tekkenshu guards around me. I watched as it forced Heihachi through the stone wall of the temple. But I couldn't let it kill my grandfather. All the control I had left went to just … flying away."

"Even after he shot you in the head, you couldn't kill him? Why the hell not?" Hwoarang banged his fist against the table to emphasize his point.

"Because I don't kill people. I, Jin Kazama, do not kill people."

"Alright," the Korean nodded, "I think I got it now. But, why are you here? Revenge? Don't you know you'll never be any better than Heihachi if you're just out to kill him? You're just going to let this continue until, what, your son throws you off a cliff?"

Jin hung his head. "My father is alive."

"What? You said he got thrown into a volcano!"

"I can't let this continue!" Jin cried, looking up at Hwoarang for the first time in the entire conversation. He balled his hands into fists and slammed them onto the table. "Heihachi is evil! He might not be a devil, but he is an evil man with an evil heart! Kazuya is a devil! This is what my mother would have wanted! All she wanted to do was rid my father of his evil by showing him that he didn't need the devil's power to make him happy! I…" he choked on his own words, tears rolling down his cheeks, "I have to stop it. I don't have a choice," Jin whispered.

"Damn it, Jin, you do have a choice. Heihachi's seriously fucked up in the head. If you don't beat him, someone will. Someone will take over the Zaibatsu, and things will get better."

Jin laughed sharply, startling Hwoarang. "Who will win, you? No, I have to win. I have to kill Heihachi and Kazuya."

"Jin Kazama doesn't kill people." 

Silence hung in the air. The two men stared at each other, saying nothing. This was one fight Hwoarang was hell bent not to lose. He would stare Jin into the ground if he had to. The Japanese man stared right back, more in shock then defiance. 

"I don't kill people," Jin whispered, "I don't…kill people. Heihachi and Kazuya … aren't people!"

He stood up so sharply; he knocked the chair he was sitting in on its back and across the floor. "This is how it has to be, Hwoarang!" Jin pointed an accusing finger at the Korean, who was standing up slowly. "I'm not doing this for the Zaibatsu, but for the good of the world! After I'm done, there will be no more evil, no more hate, no more Mishimas!"

"Just because you kept you mother's last name doesn't mean you're not a Mishima, Jin! Listen to yourself!" Hwoarang was standing carefully, legs angled just slightly back into a ready stance. "You're out to kill your father, who never did anything to you! And what if you do kill them both? There's still one last bit of evil left in the world, and it's in you!"

Jin snatched his coat and shook it violently at Hwoarang. "I said there will be no more Mishimas. That includes me." He turned on a heel and went for the door, pausing for only a moment to grab a duffel bag. 

"I'll stop you." 

The raven-haired youth glanced back at the redhead, shaking his head slightly. "No, you won't."

Jin opened the door and stepped out, leaving Hwoarang alone in his room. 


	5. Chapter 5: Secrets

Hwoarang was silent for a long moment, lost in thought. So Jin was out to kill his father and grandfather for being generally unpleasant people. Who was he to meddle in family affairs? All he was looking for was a rematch with his long lost and now-found rival. Jin had changed, that was for sure. His demeanor had changed for almost entirely passive aggressive to volatile and vengeful. Was it the devil that lived within him that changed him over the course of the years? Hwoarang smacked his fist into his palm. That had to be it. There was no other explanation for it. It wasn't like Jin Kazama to be out for revenge. That would make him too much like the family he despised. Now if only he figured out the same.  
  
It struck him at that moment that he was alone in Jin's room. What other secrets did Jin hide behind his unstable mask?  
  
Hwoarang poked around his mussed up bed, finding nothing but the slept in covers and a few strands of thick black hair on the starched pillowcase. Under the bed he found a small suitcase, which he carefully rifled through. Inside, he found a few extra changes of clothing, which was nothing interesting. What did catch his eye was a photograph, carefully tucked into a small pocket of the suitcase.  
  
The color photograph was a crispy brown around the edges, as if it was burnt at one point long ago. The small, rounded face of a young Jin smiled to the camera as a pretty woman with short black bangs rested her tiny chin on his shoulder. Her arms were wrapped protectively around his middle. Was this the legendary Jun Kazama? Hwoarang slipped the photograph into his pocket and slid the suitcase back under the bed.  
  
His search quickly brought him to the bedside drawers. Inside, he found the Holy Grail of his snoopy little dreams: A thin, black laptop computer.  
  
"Excellent," he whispered to himself, slipping his prize out from the drawer. "So, what do we have here…" Hwoarang turned on the power and waited for the computer to boot up. When it finally gave him access to Jin's desktop (with no password prompt, Hwoarang mused idly), he was almost disappointed to find very little lingering on the boring blue background. What did catch his eye was the word program conveniently titled "Journal".  
  
"Somebody keep a diary," he mocked quietly, double-clicking the icon.  
  
"Stop me?" Jin laughed quietly to himself, readjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder, "If Hwoarang thinks he can stop me from doing something right, he's got another thing coming. He shouldn't be in the middle of this. I shouldn't have even talked to him…he can't help me now." He ranted on from the elevator to outside the hotel.  
  
He doesn't want to help you.  
  
"Who said that?" Jin stood outside the hotel on the sidewalk, whipping his head from side to side. "I said, who said that?!" his voice raised in volume and pitch, and now he was bringing attention to himself. Passersby were giving him looks, making room, walking the other, more convenient way.  
  
No one will help you.  
  
Jin shut his eyes. So it was the voice within that decided to speak. If he didn't reply, it would only keep talking. It would enrage or frustrate him to the point of madness, where his willpower would be low and unstable, and then take control. Just like it did around Hwoarang.  
  
"No one needs to," his dark brow furrowed, speaking lowly so only his ears could hear him. The evil parasite needed no vocal prompting; it was as much a part of Jin Kazama as his own soul. It already knew what the boy was thinking. And it wasn't pleased. So it changed tactics.  
  
You want to destroy.  
  
"I want to make wrongs right…" there was hesitation, "…to correct what should never have been."  
  
It was fate.  
  
"How do you know?!" Jin scoffed, continuing his talk with nothingness. People were now giving him as much room as he needed. The Japanese youth was obviously crazy. "You know nothing about my father. You know as much as I know!" There was more hesitation, now with uncertainty. Jin could feel the devil smirking. It was self-complacent.  
  
Two parts. One whole.  
  
Jin's breath caught in his throat. "What?" he whispered, "What do you mean?"  
  
The silence in his mind was deafening. The devil had retreated, its job done. Questions would madden the host. The force of Jin's will would crumble under the shadows of uncertainty and doubt.  
  
A taxi pulled up in front of Jin, who unthinkingly slipped inside.  
  
It was the beginning of an end. 


	6. Chapter 6: Obligation

It was hard to tell what exactly Hwoarang was feeling at any given moment as he perused the extensive library of journal entries in Jin's laptop. Initially, he was smirking; he had found the key to the inner workings of his rival's mind. Such a treasure would undoubtedly give him an edge over his competition. But as he read, the smirk slowly slipped from his lips and from his psyche as well. 

__

"I'm lonely…"

_"No one here gives a damn about me. Nobody cares."_

The exact moment Hwoarang began to relate…

_"I don't want to give up … I can't."_

"I lost the most important person in my life, and now I have no one."

… He began to care. Hwoarang couldn't bear to read anymore. The diary told him all he needed to know and more. He wasn't used to dealing with other people's emotions, and didn't quite know how to handle it. For a long time, Hwoarang sat on the edge of the bed; hands resting on top of the laptop perched on his knees.

His eyes lidded shut as he went into meditative breathing. The only way he could deal with emotion was to push it away. With the tournament coming up, Hwoarang could only focus on one thing: fighting. Not the things he had in common with Jin Kazama. He began to slip into clarity, until his mind's eye flashed a brief, although vivid image of fangs, black snake-like markings, glowing red eyes…

Hwoarang gasped, jerking back into awareness. Vertigo hit him like a ton of bricks. His eyes snapped open in time to see the computer disappearing off the edge of his knees, landing to the floor with an unhealthy-sounding thud. It was barely audible over the sound of blood pounding in his ears. 

"Damnit, Kazama," he growled to himself, grabbing the computer from the floor. Something inside rattled. He shook it. It rattled louder. "Great." Hwoarang threw the laptop back into the drawer. Flustered and frustrated, he put his head in his hands and stared at the floor. Jin had lost his mother; he had lost his mentor, Baek. Jin had no one to turn to during his two years in Brisbane. Hwoarang toiled two years in the Korean army, when the only time people cared about him was if he did something wrong. Hwoarang had his freedom now, but Jin … would he ever be free of the devil?

Hwoarang got to his feet and dipped his head. 

"I said I'd stop you, didn't I?" he murmured under his breath. Slowly, he made his way to the door. 

"I hate obligation."

It was an empty statement, and he knew it. 

"Jin Kazama. Welcome to the Fourth King of the Iron Fist Tournament. The participants are gathering inside. Please, follow me."

Jin shook his head, waving off the proffered help. "No, thank you. I don't need to be ushered around my previous home."

The Mishima estate, one of many, but the most spectacular of the bunch, was a tribute to the glory and success of the Mishima Zaibatsu. From its beginnings under the careful direction of Jinpachi Mishima, it soon flourished in power. Jinpachi's son, Heihachi, followed in his father's footsteps, bringing the Zaibatsu to a pinnacle of world power. The tradition continued under Heihachi's son, Kazuya, who controlled the Zaibatsu from the shadows for a time after his father's 'tragic death'. The power struggle for the now most-powerful empire in the world continued after Heihachi's startling reappearance. Kazuya mysteriously vanished to the public eye, and Heihachi was placed back in the corporate spotlight, where he remained for the past 20 years. The public soon lost interest with Kazuya's whereabouts, but had found renewed interest in Heihachi's grandson, Kazuya's son, Jin. The young man was a promising heir to the Zaibatsu's throne, until he too disappeared completely from the public eye. 

Jin pulled his hood up over his head. If he could remain unknown throughout the rest of the tournament, it was all the better for him. 

He walked though the gardens outside, which hadn't changed much from when he was living within the Estate's confining walls. There were a few plants he recalled planting and caring for himself, much to the dismay of Heihachi. Too much like Jun, he had said. 

One entrant was also meandering about the garden, gazing thoughtfully at the flowers. It was a tall, leggy Brazilian girl, with long brown hair and a sparse amount of clothing. Her pants were so shiny it was hard to look at her when she was in the sun. Her glittered bikini top also sparkled, through there much not much to it. She seemed content with smelling the flowers and enjoying every bit of sun she could get. 

Jin eyed the cords that dangled from her hips. Although the wrong color, they seemed to be a symbol of rank, ones used in the art of Capoeira. He chuckled to himself and moved inside. 

While other people were amazed and absorbed within the vastness of the estate, Jin moved easily through the halls. Other people were worried about getting lost. Jin was watching the shadows, worried about what was lurking within them. 

He suddenly whirled when he heard footsteps behind him, throwing up his hands in preparation to push aside any attack coming his way. Another sets of hands were thrown up, but only in mock defense. 

"Hey, hey, no harm, no foul," the blonde man smirked, his blue eyes glinting mischievously. "Just looking for the bathroom."

"Three doors down, on the right," Jin mumbled, lowering his hands. 

"Hey, thanks. What do you think of the place? Wouldn't you love to have something like this?"

"No," Jin said flatly, turning to resume his walk. 

"C'mon, I didn't do anything to you," the blonde persisted, walking to Jin's side. Jin shot him a sidelong glare. The man shrugged it off and held out his hand, which was swathed in bandages. "I'm Steve Fox. I want to be rich and famous and surrounded by women."

His attitude was contagious. Jin mustered a small smile. "Jin Kazama." He shook Steve's hand, and found his grip to be like iron. It was firm and unrelenting, yet not painful. The strength in his arm was surprising. 

"So, why're you hiding under that hood?" Steve chuckled, looping his thumbs into the straps of his suspenders that were dangling at his hips. "I bet my scars look worse than yours, if that's the case." 

"No, no scar," Jin chuckled. He began avidly searching over Steve's frame for this aforementioned scar, but his silent question was quickly answered. Steve pulled up the short sleeve of his Hawaiian shirt and displayed the disfiguring scar that trailed up the entirety of his left arm. Jin blanched. 

"Pretty, isn't it? But hey, doesn't hinder me at all," he jabbed at the air, and Jin was surprised at the speed of Steve's fake attacks. This guy was just full of surprises. 

"Where did you get that?" 

Steve unrolled his shirt again, straightening out the collar with a few flicks of his thumbs. "Don't know. But I'm not as bad off as this other guy skulking around here is. Got a nasty scar on his face, neck, probably more, but he was wearing a suit and sunglasses. I was curious, checked him out a bit … you're not going to believe this, but he had this creepy red eye…"

"Interesting," Jin had already taken a liking to Steve. He was outgoing and obviously laid back. Who else would wear a Hawaiian shirt in Japan, much less a fighting tournament? Shaking his head, Jin slowly pulled back the hood of his jacket. 

Steve was busy eyeing the young Capoeirista who had walked in from the gardens. "And he had this totally goofy hairstyle, all slicked back into this…" he turned back to Jin and ceased all verbal communication. Jin lifted his eyebrows. "Flattop? Was it Paul Phoenix?" 

Steve shook his head, blinking at Jin strangely. "No, a cowlick. Just like yours."


End file.
